The stranger, without disturbing his veil, seemed to comprehend the whole interior of the grotto with a glance; then, with the slightest gesture of recognition to Pan, he glided to the couch on which lay the metamorphosed lily, upraised the fictitious Iridion in his arms with indescribable gentleness, and disappeared with her as swiftly and silently as he had come.  The discreet Pan struggled with suppressed merriment until the stranger was fairly out of hearing, then threw himself back upon his seat and laughed till the cave rang.

“And now,” he said, “to finish the business.”  He lifted the transformed maiden into the vase, and caressed her beauty with an exulting but careful hand.  There was a glory and a splendour in the flower such as had never until then been beheld in any earthly lily.  The stem vibrated, the leaves shook in unison, the petals panted and suspired, and seemed blanched with a whiteness intense as the core of sunlight, as they throbbed in anticipation of the richer existence awaiting them.

Impatient to complete his task, Pan was about to grasp his wand when the motion was arrested as the sinking beam of the sun was intercepted by a gigantic shadow, and the stranger again stood by his side.  The unbidden guest uttered no word, but his manner was sufficiently expressive of wrath as he disdainfully cast on the ground a broken, withered lily, the relic of what had bloomed with such loveliness in the morning, and had since for a brief space been arrayed in the vesture of humanity.  He pointed imperiously to the gorgeous tenant of the vase, and seemed to expect Pan to deliver it forthwith.

“Look here,” said Pan, with more decision than dignity, “I am a poor country god, but I know the law.  If you can find on this plant one speck, one stain, one token that you have anything to do with her, take her, and welcome.  If you cannot, take yourself off instead.”

“Be it so,” returned the stranger, haughtily declining the proffered inspection.  “You will find it is ill joking with Death.”

So saying, he quitted the cavern.

Pan sat down chuckling, yet not wholly at ease, for if the charity of Death is beautiful even to a mortal, his anger is terrible, even to a god.  Anxious to terminate the adventure, he reached towards the charmed wand by whose wonderful instrumentality the dying maiden had already become a living flower, and was now to undergo a yet more delightful metamorphosis.

Wondrous wand!  But where was it?  For Death, the great transfigurer of all below this lunar sphere, had given Pan a characteristic proof of his superior cunning.  Where the wand had reposed writhed a ghastly worm, which, as Pan’s glance fell upon it, glided towards him, uplifting its head with an aspect of defiance.  Pan’s immortal nature sickened at the emblem of corruption; he could not for all Olympus have touched his metamorphosed treasure.  As he shrank back the creature pursued its way towards